Tovan's senses stirred—faint light between the trees, the cold earth beneath his palms, and the taste of dried blood at the corner of his mouth. A groan to his left. Renil. Alive.
The Cindralith man was gone—vanished like a specter swallowed by the trees. Only one other remained: the bald man, crumpled in a pool of dirt and blood, unconscious, his chest rising in slow, shallow breaths.
Tovan forced himself up. His voice cracked the silence.
"Let's move. We'll talk after. We leave this cursed place first."
Renil nodded. No complaints. He staggered to his feet and began dragging the unconscious man by the arm. They left behind their packs and half their belongings—too heavy, too loud, too dangerous. In the Forest of Veilwood, silence was the only weapon they had left.
Hours passed. They didn't speak. Couldn't. The trees whispered, and every snapped twig echoed like thunder in their ears. If another came like him—like that man—they'd die. Simple as that.
But finally...
The trees began to thin.
And the sky opened above them.
Veilwood ended.
Renil collapsed to the grass, panting like a man who had outrun death. Tovan dropped beside him, his eyes still scanning the tree line behind.
Renil exhaled long and loud.
"Gods above," he muttered. "That man... he looked like he stepped out of a hero's tale. Do all warriors in Thal'mire fight like that?"
Tovan stared at the horizon. His voice was low.
"No. That wasn't normal. That kind of strength—it's beyond a warrior. Maybe even beyond a Drazkhar."
Renil's eyes widened. A chill passed over him.
And then he remembered something. A detail. The sigil.
He sat up quickly.
"Wait. That man—he wore something. A symbol. A crown, broken, and... nails. Seven—or maybe eight—driven straight through it."
Tovan turned his head slowly.
Without another word, the two rose and ran.
They left the unconscious man behind—forgotten in the grass—as the weight of what they'd seen began to settle.
Orrun's forge hissed with steam. Sparks danced as his hammer slammed into a freshly tempered blade, each strike ringing through the iron-blooded air.
He didn't see the boys arrive—until they burst in, breathless, wild-eyed.
He straightened.
"What's this now? You look like you saw a Wyrm ghost."
Renil stepped forward without hesitation.
"The sigil," he said. "A crown. Severed. Pierced by... seven nails. Or eight. I couldn't count. What does it mean?"
Orrun's face darkened.
The hammer slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a dull clang.
He spoke slowly. Carefully.
"That's no simple mark. It belongs to an Othurak... from Cindralith."
The word carried weight—like a name no one should say out loud.
"They were once men," Orrun continued. "Now they are something else. He commands Drazkhar legions... bends them with his will. You saw him?"
Neither of the boys answered.
Orrun's eyes narrowed.
"Where?"
Silence.
Tovan looked away.
Renil scratched his head, smiled nervously, and changed the subject.
"Anyway, uh... need a hand with the forge today?"
Orrun definitely noticed something was off.
Though he didn't speak of it, his narrowed eyes followed the boys with an unspoken intensity. There was something in the way Renil fidgeted too much and how Tovan avoided his gaze—something unspoken, breathing under their silence.
Still, he said nothing.
Instead, the old blacksmith cracked his knuckles, handed them thick leather gloves, and ordered, "Back to back until your arms cry for your mothers."
And just like that, the forge roared once again. The air turned thick with the scent of iron, sweat, and burning coal. Sparks flew. Sweat dripped. Muscles burned. For what felt like hours, the boys hammered, lifted, and shaped metal that refused to bend easily. Orrun said nothing else, letting the ringing of steel speak in place of questions.
By the time the sun dipped toward the western hills, Renil collapsed on a bench near the forge door. His arms ached like they had been gnawed on by invisible beasts. Tovan dropped beside him with a grunt.
"He definitely knows," Tovan muttered, eyes on the embers.
"Yeah," Renil said between gulps of air, "but thank the gods he's not asking."
They sat in silence for a while until Renil leaned closer and whispered, "Hey... I've been thinking. What if we find that man again?"
Tovan raised a brow. "The one who nearly dismembered an entire group of madmen with nothing but presence and one look?"
"Yeah," Renil nodded seriously. "We ask if he's really an Othurak. Ask him why he came here. Why he stopped."
Tovan turned, staring at his friend like he had lost his mind. "You said it yourself—they're madmen. What if before we speak, he snaps our necks like twigs?"
Renil smirked, eyes glowing with excitement. "I know. But doesn't it make you curious? I mean—what kind of power must you have to control Drazkhars? To wear that sigil? Seven nails through a severed crown... that's not just a symbol. That's a story. A legacy."
Tovan stared at the floor. A part of him wanted to argue, to scold his friend for being reckless. But another part... the part that had seen the depthless stillness in that Cindralith's eyes, that had felt the air distort with his presence...
"I guess... it's worth something," he admitted.
Renil beamed. "Now we're talking!"
"But even if we agree to find him," Tovan said, "where do we look? He appeared out of nowhere. Vanished just the same."
Renil's eyes flicked up. "There are rumors," he said, "that he's often seen in mead halls."
Tovan blinked. "Seriously? A mead hall? That's where old warriors drink themselves stupid and start brawls until someone gets stabbed in the gut. We're just kids."
Renil shrugged. "I didn't say we'll go inside. Just wait outside. Look for him. Ask."
"You speak as if asking him is like greeting a friend in the street."
Renil grinned. "What? You scared?"
"No," Tovan lied. "I just like my neck intact."
Renil laughed, a boyish sound too loud for the danger he was proposing. "Then we're decided?"
Tovan hesitated but nodded. "Fine. But we wait until night. After Orrun sleeps."
As the sky dimmed, they returned to work under Orrun's watchful eye. The blacksmith didn't question their newfound focus, but something in his glance said he knew. He had been young once. He had chased mysteries too. And perhaps, in their foolishness, he saw a sliver of the man he once was.
The hours passed. Metal cooled. Fire dimmed. When Orrun finally retired to his room upstairs, the boys wiped their faces, changed into darker clothes, and snuck out through the side alley of the forge.
The town of Ashvalar was quiet at night, but not dead.
Somewhere across the district, laughter broke out. Somewhere else, glass shattered. The city breathed differently after sunset, like a sleeping beast that stirred in dreams—sometimes peaceful, sometimes restless.
They followed the scent of mead and the echoes of raucous voices until they reached the edge of the lower quarter, near the open fires of an old mead hall called The Black Horn. Its wooden sign swung in the breeze, creaking ominously.
From outside, they could see shadows moving. Burly figures drinking. Men with scarred faces slamming mugs down. Arguments ready to explode at any second.
"We are not going in there," Tovan muttered.
"Never said we would," Renil replied, taking position across the street beside some barrels.
They waited.
An hour passed. Then another.
Occasionally, drunk men stumbled out. One of them looked like he hadn't slept in days. Another cursed the moon itself. But none wore the dark robes of Cindralith. None had the terrifying stillness.
Then, just as the clock neared midnight, a hush fell.
A figure stepped out of the mead hall. He didn't stumble like the others. Didn't yell. Didn't look around.
He simply walked—slow, deliberate, his black robes trailing behind him like a shadow that didn't belong to this world.
Renil's heart skipped.
Tovan froze.
It was him.